


In the Valley of Death: A Nomad's Odyssey

by warriorfist



Category: Captain America, Captain America (Comics), Marvel (Comics), Marvel 616
Genre: Action/Adventure, Drama, Fantasy, Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-17
Updated: 2013-04-08
Packaged: 2017-11-25 20:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/642797
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/warriorfist/pseuds/warriorfist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky Barnes is dead. Or is he? Thrust into a strange version of the afterlife, he is joined by unlikely allies in the fight for their survival in an ever-changing landscape. Above all, he must find the answer: where do ideas go when they die?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Inferno

James Barnes was straining to hold on to his fleeing consciousness as they loaded his stretcher onto the medevac. The first thing that he noticed was the blades.

Giant blades were flitting in and out of his vision, slowly, deliberately; like crude scythes. The image seemed to last for an eternity, then disappeared almost in a flash. It was as though time had gone very wonky in these last few minutes.

The noise was deafening. The chopper lifted off, and James felt weightless.

A medic was busy cauterizing the stump on his left shoulder; it didn't matter, his extremities had gone numb in the first few minutes. The medic moved on to the gaping hole in the middle of his chest, and promptly realised there was nothing he or any surgeon worth his salt could do about that.

"Ma'am...I am sorry. He's a fighter, but the wounds are too severe. He's not going to-"

"Don't!" Natasha retorted harshly at the hapless corpsman.

Natasha was a mess. Her ageless, pale features were marred by the running mascara on her cheeks. James had never seen her so vulnerable before. He hated himself for doing this to her.

He tried to say something to her. Something along the lines of "Relax, dying ain't what it used to be. That trick never works!". But did he really want his last words to be that corny?

He wanted to say that he loved her.

He wanted to talk about their past, but that always hurt. He was in enough pain already.  
But still, he had to try.

"Nat...I..." he managed to gurgle out, hand trembling as he tried to reach out to her. The effort exhausted him entirely. His already blurry vision now was now starting to fail him completely.

"He is fading," the medic announced, fingers on James' pulse, "If you have any last words..."

Natasha's lips trembled, and she seemed to hesitate. Then reluctantly, she nodded, eyes tightly shut as she drew closer to James' ears.

She mumbled something. James couldn't hear her.

He was already falling.

This was where he had been headed all along. The Fall. The Explosion. Suspended in air. That sense of nothingness where his left arm should be. Deja vu didn't begin to describe it.

He had escaped it these past few years, but the Fall hadn't forgotten him. It had been waiting for him all this time. The Fall would lead to the Water, and that's where he had been headed the entire time. Frozen in a block of ice. Forgotten by history.

Everything has a place in the grand scheme of all things. This was his rock on the totem pole. Everything was starting to fall into place.

It all made sense.

This was how it was meant to be.

* * *

**Prologue: Inferno**

* * *

Ares waited. Patience was not his virtue, but he had learned enough of it to get by. Before long, the answer came; and as he had anticipated, it was not a pleasing one.

"No," Charon stated. Despite his countenance- a thin, scraggy, grey loincoth was all that garbed his withered old flesh, dried sinews and all, with wooly, hoary locks of white obscuring his face, save for his fierce, yellow eyes- the old man possessed a quiet, if strained, dignity.

"Ah. So your feet remain on either side of the line in the sand, as they are wont to," Ares was understandably disappointed, but he did not let it show on his haughty features. "But if you will entertain me further? Elaborate."

"Very well," Charon had just finished harboring his boat to the modest dock, and now he turned the entirety of his attention to the War god. "Your tactics are sound, but your strategy is not as fortuitous. Whether be it by fate or choice, you have ever been an agent of chaos. Unfortunately, order is the perennial victor in our realm of concern. For comparison's sake, you are akin to this..." Charon picked up a nondescript pebble and flung as far as he could into the water with his feeble (but surprisingly hardy) arms. A multitude of ripples poured forth from the point of impact, but after a few moments Acheron returned to its state of dreary serenity.

Charon would have proceeded to explain the meaning behind this demonstration, but Ares raised a big, meaty palm, his beady eyes contracted towards his prominent nose. It was clear that the 'elaboration' had been a bit too patronizing.

"Your point has been made, I would think. I take my leave then," Ares placed his impressive war helm on his stocky scalp, "with the implicit trust that none of this will reach the ears of your current masters. Fare ye well, ferryman. I leave you to your work."

"Have you ever known me to be a tattle-tale?" Charon muttered, mostly to himself; the patron-deity of Sparta was well on his way. Charon was mildly amused- and daresay, even impressed- by the tact displayed the War god. Death, it seemed, had tempered his rage. Before, it was all surface, a mighty, blunt bludgeon with which he sought to flatten any and all opponents. Now, it seemed more alike to a finely sharpened dagger, wielded deftly and cunningly at the most opportune times to maximise the damage dealt.

These were interesting times in Hades.

Charon turned his attention to work. The rabble of freshly dead were lumbering towards his boat. Generally bereft of any sense of their state, they sometimes aroused themselves to brief sparks of cognizance. In such moments, they were prone to grumble, bicker and cause other forms of general unrest. And Charon was prone to whack such offenders with his mighty oar. And that silenced them again into blissful non-identity.

It was hard work, and there was no reward whatsoever. But such was his lot in eternity, and he would make do with it.

As he stood by the side of the boat, he outstretched his palm in front of the newest passenger and asked, in a hoarse, broken voice, that question he had repeated an endless times since the pantheon's creation.

"You have the coin?" or so it went.

* * *

Scoundrels! Beggars, the whole lot of them!

He had forever dealt with the penniless, but they had never proliferated within the flock to this degree. Soon, there were none left for Charon to ferry but the destitute, and they swarmed the shores by the thousands, an endless stream of them arriving from whatever godforsaken battlefield had spawned them. Uncultured, misbegotten swines! And they were so many. He hadn't seen such numbers since the height of his pantheon's influence.

He was on his boat, quickly unfastening the moored rope from the dock. A dozen of the dead were approaching his vessel, wading into the water, and the unfiltered contact with the sin residues of the processed dead stung their souls. But they were far too ignorant to take such suffering into account.

"Back. Back, I say!" the ferryman bellowed. The rope unfastened, he threw it into the water and leapt into his boat with surprising agility.

As if following his cue, they now proceeded to swarm his vessel from both sides. Charon responded in appropriate fashion with his oar, smacking the would-be boarders away with the front blade. Even the blind and sense-deprived can gauge fear and terror, if only vaguely; and thus they recoiled from further attempts at unlawful entry and huddled away at the shore.  
Charon took his chance, and oared deeper into the river, quickly increasing his distance between the growing horde. He spared a last, scornful glance at those rudderless sheep, before turning his mind to the present dilemma.

Something was afoot. And it was interfering with his work in a grossly unbecoming manner. Whatever was the cause behind this sordid affair, Charon was determined to find out. He looked at the water. Wispy, ethereal remnants of mortal sorrow peeked through the dark surface. Their vague, non-descript faces (which always seemed to sport an uniform frown) seemed more alert than usual.

The rivers would provide the answer. He was sure of it.

With new purpose, he began heaving his oar, driving his boat towards the heart of Acheron.

And thus began the journey.

Unfortunately, for the ferryman of the dead, it wasn't going to be very fruitful.

The languages of the rivers were lost artifacts, and even an old soul like Charon was but crudely versed in such repertoire. Shunned and neglected, the streams of Hades had long outgrown the need for earnest communication. Their words have become warped beyond recognition, and even their speakers barely understood the entirety of their faint mumblings.

Despite their reluctance, the rivers talked about great many things. They could not help it, for the souls passing through them left behind sediments of all kinds of mortal idiosyncracies, and such trivial trinkets spurred the great waters into flickering bouts of verbosity.

Having travelled to the heart of ancient Acheron, where such chatter was likely to be most frequent, Charon laid his ears to the floor his boat and remained still. At first it was all gibberish, of course. It took a while for his rusty mind to remember the precise details of such linguistics; and when he did, the wailings became all too apparent. The after-taste of denial; of the sorrow that came with the realisation that life as one knew was now well and truly over. It was nothing Charon wasn't accustomed to, by then. He sorted out through the irrelevant anectodes and focused solely on current developments.

Acheron spoke most often of a new war, waged by an ancient, forgotten entity whose name musn't be invoked. The world quaked at his growing power, and if not for any last moment miracles it was doomed to fall under his dominion.

Charon was not impressed in the slightest. He remembered The Titanomachy, where Zeus Pater of the flowing red locks ascended to the sky throne, and the Gigantomachy, where Gaia herself raged to bring Olympus down through her deviant spawns. Such struggles were epic and legendary precisely for their rarity in occurrence. Wars and death tolls were far too common in this day and age. Nowadays, there was a crusade to bring down the earth or the cosmos every other afternoon.

As Hades had managed fine enough during those most recent struggles, logic dictated that it should not be affected in the slightest by this latest scuffle.

Consequently, Charon spoke to Acheron directly in order to gain a greater understanding of this particular dilemma. After the initial surprise of being addressed so bluntly and explicitly, the river tried to overcompensate and launched into a grandiose, meandering tirade as it desperately sought to entertain this unexpected guest. Charon was amused; both of them were old souls, and perhaps, Acheron was even older than he. But it was quite difficult to carry a conversation with an entity which lost coherence at every third sentence. And even then, Charon was hardly in the mood to socialise.

The god-river was disappointed, but Charon even more so when the latter realised that the former had no answers for his queries. "But go to my children," Acheron the father spoke in that fluid, flummery tongue, "they are more well-versed in such matters than I."

And thus Charon crossed over to Styx, through the great Marsh at the center of Hades. The younger tributary of Acheron, Styx had always been an irritable fellow. In its own perspective, it had drawn the shortest straw of the lot- to be chosen as the receptacle for all of man's anger and sullenness. But that day, the river was even more vexed than usual.

"And what troubles you so?" Charon inquired of the errant stream; and Styx was quick to reply in a hateful, venal scowl- for its tongue was easily the most well-versed amongst all its peers and sires. "Look thither, at yon shores to thine right! Savages! Do they not know the import of such hallowed grounds?"

And Charon turned to where Styx pointed, where he saw, to his eternal surprise, a strange gathering of the newly dead. They were all locked in various modes of assault. Naked and muddied, they not only struck each other with their hands, but head, chest and feet, mangling each other with their teeth, bite by bite. Such a show of wrathfulness bamboozled the ferryman greatly- for never before had he seen destitute wander so far away from the docks, let alone engage in such acts of brutality.

"And there persists the gurgling!Look, how my skin itches at such poking!" Styx bellowed spitefully. And Charon looked, and saw thousands of tiny bubbles spurt out at the river's surface.

Charon was truly perplexed, but he had no time for such perplexions. He hurried to his principal inquiry, and was disappointed once more when Styx yelled a resounding non-affirmative. "But go to my mirror stream, if you must. He might care to take note of such happenings!"

And Charon ferried himself to Phelegethon of the crimson, boiling froth which ran parallel to the river of hate. It was a trek that Charon wasn't entirely keen to undertake. Though his vessel was made of hardy wood, scrounged and scavenged from the leftovers of the gods, it was not made to withstand the rigors of extended contact with volcanic lava. When he arrived, the river of fire was in something of a mood. Small spires of brief flames shot three feet above into the air. Charon knew it to be a sadistic soul- but he had never found the river so clearly amused.

"And what keeps you in such high spirits?" he inquired, warily, for even a merry Phlegethon was a dangerous river. "O, can you not hear them?" it whispered gleefully, "I have no inkling as to how they came to be here, but this is most fortuitous, indeed! Look! Peek, if you can, below my fiery hide!"

And Charon looked down, though he had to squint a long time to make out anything beyond the glowing magma at the surface. Then he saw fingernails pierce through it, connected to decaying, bony finger-flesh, before they were dragged down by some unseen force.

"How they bargain! Peddlers of the most wonderous sort, they are. A precious moment or two, a marriage here and there, a son or daughter or father gladly traded for one's own safe passage!" Charon was unnerved by how eloquent the river had become at such suffering. "But the wranglers at the horizon spoil the fun, with their sticks and stones and pitch-forkses! How uncouth."

Charon would have asked of these wranglers, had he not seen them, first. Charcoal-skinned demons stood guard, cackling madly at nothing in particular. And what were they doing there? Charon did not know. Too many unanswered questions; it left a bad aftertaste in his mouth.

The ferryman had braced himself for the inevitable letdown, but neverthless felt that familiar sting upon hearing that Phelegethon, too, had no true clue as to the cause of such disturbances. "But hold! Did you not hear? Father's elder spawn is in a most troubling predicament," the river of fire advised furthermore, "Make haste to his domain, for his pathways are shifting and twisting even as we tarry with vapid words."

Indeed, it took Charon more than a few detours to reach the waters of Cocytus, first tributary of the god-river that is Acheron. And more than once did the ferryman encounter unexpected bends; they ever forced him to travel downwards, edging ever closer to the dreaded abyss that is Tartarus. His instincts informed him that he was on the correct path, but memory told him otherwise. Fortunately, he reached Cocytus before long; but he found the river changed immeasurably. He could travel no further by boat, for the river of lamentation was now completely frozen! And it couldn't be called a river anymore, even; more like a lake, judging from its shrunken dimensions. He oared to the nearby shores and tied his oar to the back of the vessel. He resolved to carry the boat on his back for the time being; for he was wary to leave his prized possession unguarded in such strange territory.

When he felt he had walked long enough, he approached the frozen waters, and with a mighty heave, pushed through a sizeable chunk of ice to reach the water below. His withered flesh felt almost petrified at the sheer coldness of it. He quickly pulled his hands away and put his ear as near to the exposed water as he dared to, and listened. The river was even more despondent than usual. And Charon asked, "Why are you thus dispirited?" Cocytus wailed in reply, "The distress is but too much for me to bear. Long have I bore the burden of man's rueful nature, all the despair and woe to be experienced at death having extracted and distilled through my body entire. But now I am riddled with the corpses of the faithless! Can you not see?"

And Charon peeked through the water, and he saw countless humanoid figures, the details obscured by formation of ice around their bodies. Hades was changing before his eyes. He asked Cocytus once more, "And why are you in such a state, frozen and immobile?" Cocytus whimpered, "I know not the cause. Perhaps the Old Man does, whose tears now flow into my flesh and nourishes it, or perhaps, plagues it with this newfound pestilence. Thither he sits, on yon distant mount."

Charon turned towards the mountain, to see a distinct statue, a waterfall flowing from its head. He surveyed his surroundings a bit more, and saw stranger sights still. Further into the landmass, a massive figure wandered, naked, old and venerable with beards flowing down to his knees. He knew of this one: the giant Antaeus, though how the creature had gotten to here the ferryman had no clue. Further still, he saw similar figures bound to the surrounding hills, hoisted near their peaks; he recognised Briareus, Tityos and Typhon, whom Zeus had hurled down to the great abyss at the end of the Gigantomachy.

And now Charon was truly afraid, for he feared that he had descended into Tartarus itself, or perhaps the pit itself had been mangled and warped into a caricature akin to the rivers themselves. He made haste and prepared to move, but then saw a most terrible vision; he now saw what had rendered frozen the river of lament, though he now wished that the answer eluded him ever more. A hideous, terrible beast was trapped further into the stream, its huge, bat-like wings flapping at rare intervals with such force as to create gale-force frigid winds which stuck the river solid. In shape, it was like that of a lion; coupled with the wings, it looked like a deformed Sphinx. Though it had one head, there were three faces on three sides- the front was fiery red, and the other two were whitish-yellow and coal-black. All three mouths were gnawing on what appeared to be mortal souls. Tears and demonic blood spewed forth from six eyes.

And Charon did not wait to ask Cocytus any more questions, for he knew that the river was as clueless as he, but fled the land as fast as his feeble feet could carry him. "Wait! Do not leave!" the river wailed, for misery loved company. Charon paid no heed, but sprinted head-on, shutting his eyes and ears from taking note of any more bewildering happenings.

He ran and ran, until his bones started to ache and he had to stop by to catch his breath. It was then that he noticed the water, which was liquid and flowing smoothly once again. Grateful, he went to the shore and drooped downwards, intending to take a mouthful to quench his thirst; but then, he saw the shades in the distant glades, working mechanically at repetitive, menial chores. He instantly recoiled away from the waters. He knew where he was; the fields of Elysium, bordered by Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, where souls accepted their fate and left their former lives completely so that they may start their existence anew.

And Charon knew instinctively, that it was Lethe all along which would guide him down the true path; for to think otherwise meant that he was lost, abandoned by fate to be consumed within the sweeping, inexplicable changes that were devouring Hades. Thus he set his boat down on the waters, freed his oar and resumed his journey once more.

Lethe did not speak, unlike the others. There is no voice of oblivion, only the totality of the silence that follows in its wake. There was a cool, pleasant breeze which flowed along the breadth of the stream, and it put his troubled mind at ease. Yet, the comfort of oblivion was not something he entirely cherished, and he hastened to escape the serene place.

And thus he came upon a great mist, so dense and so wide that it completely obscured any vision of what lay beyond. The old man braced himself, before resolving to oar straight through. His vision being rendered useless, his other senses also became functionally irrelevant. For a moment which seemed to persist abnormally long, Charon felt that his boat might tip over and he might fall into an endless, gaping chasm.

Then the feeling passed, and the mists gave way.

He wasn't in Hades, anymore.

The ray of sunshine poking through the foggy air stung his light-deprived eyes, but they grew accustomed to it after a while. He glanced upwards, and saw clear, blue skies. And there he saw a flash of silver, high up in the atmosphere; then a dozen more flashes streaked through.

He realised that they were growing closer.

Great wings of majestic plumage were flapping above the clouds, and soon, he caught a glimpse of the full glory: Pegasi, mounted by distinctly human figures as they sailed through the air. They were descending gradually, in a steady trajectory set for a distant target.

They must be omens, the old man thought, and resolved to follow their trail for the time being. As he did so, he took more time to fully take in his surroundings. Judging by the stillness of the water, he realised that he had to be in a lake rather than a river. A small island loomed in the horizons, surrounded completely by marshlands.

He did not know where he was; his steadfast instincts now proved useless in such unfamiliar territory. A curious feeling enveloped him- a tinge of alienation, followed by the soothing knowledge that here at least, he might be safe for the time being. But if Hades had fallen quickly to such unexplained phenomena, would anywhere else truly be safe? He wished not to ponder further on the matter, and instead, oared onwards.

Eventually, he got near enough to the target to see what it was- a small boat moored in the middle of nowhere, occupied by three dainty figures garbed in flowing, unflattering robes of white. The boat was more spacious and wider than his, he remarked sub-consciously. But almost immediately afterwards he noticed the reason for their pause- a glint of metal caught his eye, and judging by the way the figures were fishing it out of the water, he figured it was the armor doing the trick, worn by some unfortunate drowner, no doubt.

And now he saw that these three maidens, with flowing, golden locks, and their innocent, almost pure serenity struck him, for he hadn't seen such sincerity in purpose in all his long years. And as they fetched the man out of the water- for it had to be a male, judging by the form- three of the horse-riders descended towards this most curious sight, and Charon saw that these were maidens too.

But these were shield-maidens- they had to be. Even if they were not garbed in strange, plated armor, they carried themselves with a certain assured haughtiness, that comes naturally to warriors of accomplished stature, who knew their strengths and limits all too well. They had seen him approach, of course, but did not object; and when he had reached sufficient proximity, they introduced themselves as Eir Mercy-Giver, Herfjötur Host-fetter, and Skögul Storm-bender. They were in deep discourse with the ladies of the lake, and they spoke in alien tongues which constantly morphed phonetically such that it eluded his grasping mind.

For the longest time, he stood there on his boat, leaning on his oar, listening to the indiscernible exchange, an unwanted outsider peeking through the window into a strange world. Then one of lake-maidens looked at him directly, and smiled, before speaking in a language that he could more easily understand. This was a very strange matter, she said, and they must go to the king of this land to resolve it on rightful grounds. "And you may come with us, if you want!" she laughed, answering Charon's query before it had been even asked.

And thus ended his journey, if only for the time being.

But another's had only just begun.


	2. So a Guy Wakes Up in a Bar...

**Issue One: Stranger in A Strange Land**

* * *

_"A man may die, nations may rise and fall, but an idea lives on. Ideas have endurance without death."- JFK._

* * *

**_Chapter One: So A Guy Wakes Up In A Bar..._ **

* * *

_7 May 1945_

A jolt surged directly through his heart, followed by an unnatural liveliness which immediately awakened to life his consciousness. White lights poured down on his eyes overhead, and they added to overwhelming disorientation which had seized him since the moment of his resuscitation. He sprang up from the bed, his extremities feeling extremely numb as he did so.

He looked around; a cramped room, filled with people and all kinds of equipment sprawled around his bed. They were all men, dressed in white, sanitised robes; they regarded him with a unnerving mixture of pride and apprehension. He did not know who they were, or where he was. He had no sense of time; he had no sense of anything.

He felt as though a significant part of him had been lost somehow, somewhere.

As he looked around, he saw that his upper-left appendage was unnaturally short compared to its upper-right counterpart. Was it supposed to be that way? He touched it, and again felt that feeling of loss; but it was more visceral this time, more literal, for a wave of pain shot through his shoulder immediately. But the numbness was such that he could sense it only vaguely, as though it were a silhouette in a dream.

Two of the men approached him from either side, as he slowly stepped away from the bed. He realised that they were attempting to restrain him. His fight or flight reflexes kicked in; it was obvious which he would prefer.

He clocked the left one squarely in the jaw, and ducked away as the right one swung a baton at his gut. A knee to the chest, and this one was left reeling on the floor as well.

The others withdrew from him slightly; his gaze immediately shifted to the doorway, his path to it now more bereft of obstacles than before. Instinctively, he bolted straight for it.

The men around the room shouted, some at him, some at each other; it did not matter, for it was all gibberish to him at the moment. But he felt an uncomfortable tinge of vague, passing familiarity, as though he should recognise every syllable, every intonation- but somehow, it all escaped him.

"Остановите его!"

"Назовите охранники!"

"Сделайте Кое-что! Карпов будет жевать нас к частям, если он убежит!"

He ignored them all; he had almost reached the door when he felt a strong force impact on the back of his skull, and he immediately went down, face first.

They were still talking, but their voices were more muffled now; and more relaxed. He tried to rise up, but he felt them push him down towards the ground.

"Совершенство спасибо. Управляйте успокоительным средством немедленно. Даже в этом условии, он столь же силен как вол."

He felt a sharp sting in his arm; then they started to lift him and carry him away from the door. The image of the empty door-frame remained transfixed in his blurry eyesight, and he felt a terrible yearning for it, even as everything else faded away. Consciousness again started to slip away, like grains of sand through his fingers; and he wondered confusedly as the blackness returned once again.

Had it all been a dream?

* * *

_Now_

James felt a gentle prodding in his shoulder. It awakened him from somnolence, and as he slowly opened his eyes, yawning loudly as he did so, it seemed to him as though he had been drugged, judging from the clumsiness he felt as he moved his arms away from his face.

Arms? He turned his attention immediately to his left shoulder, completely alert and in full possession of his faculties- and indeed, he saw, there was an arm, complete with hand, wrist and fingers, attached to it, looking entirely unscathed and quite ordinary. He touched it, and it felt normal: warm and light- not cold and heavy like the metal prosthetic.

What was happening to him?

"Well, I hope you had your beauty sleep," James turned to see a man standing to his right, smiling as he cleaned a conical glass in his hand with a brown napkin. He had an earnest quality to him; shortly cropped brown hair framed atop a oval, rippled face with beady eyes. He was dressed rather formally; a plain white shirt and black, plaid trousers, complete with a maroon, striped tie. A modest build completed the picture; more than anything else, he seemed like a clerk from a bureaucratic office.

"And who you are supposed to be?" James asked, trying not to let his bewilderment show on the surface.

"Whoever you want me to be," James hated the cryptic types. "But if you want a name, I guess you can call me Steve."

"Steve...right," James hoped this wasn't somebody's idea of a sick joke.

He looked around; apparently he had been sleeping in a sitting position, atop a bar stool and leaning against a counter. He was also dressed in the costume, his cowl pulled off and hanging by the neck. It felt heavy- the blue metallic overshirt had always been a tad cumbersome- and he wondered why he had to arrive here dressed like this. But there were more important questions than that to be asked at the moment, he supposed.

Whoever had designed the room had either a bad taste or bankrupt imagination (or perhaps, both)- for it was all white; and it struck him, not in a dazzling, awe-inspiring manner, but in a dull, excitement-sapping manner. This was more grey than white; it did not seem to be the sum of all colors, but rather, the absence of all colors. (Though he knew this to be silly, as black is the true claimant of that latter title).

But something unnerved him, and he could say what it exactly was. Every time he blinked, the details plopped into existence, layer by layer. Like those old simulations and video games, where the broad strokes appeared first and the rest was filled in microseconds later. Had the marble tiles been there before? And what about the tables? They were arranged perfectly in a pentagonal layout, the distinctly recognisable "RESERVED" signs set over them. The chairs remained empty, or so it seemed.

"So what is this place?" he asked, at length.

"Well, what does it look like?" Steve inquired rhetorically, as he moved behind the counter and placed the spotless glass in its appropriate place on the shelf, lined with bottles and boxes of all familiar shapes and sizes.

"It looks like a bar," James answered bluntly. "Look, I am not in a mood to play around. I know what this is supposed to be."

"Do you?" Steve's gaze locked directly into James' eyes, and it had an air of sincerity this time around.

James sighed. He hated this sort of psychoanalysing horse manure. "What, are you supposed to be my shrink?...Never mind. How did I end up in this dump?"

"Well, that's a long story," Steve laughed softly. "Better have a drink to go with that one. What would you prefer?"

James shrugged, setting his arms down on the counter and leaning closer to it. "Ehh. Give me a beer."

"Right you are," Steve fetched out a bottle of Pabst, which he then slid towards James across the counter. "There you go."

"Thanks," James opened the bottle and downed a few mouthfuls. "Gaah. It's funny how it tastes exactly the same, y'see. And how this counter feels exactly like a finely polished piece of balsa wood should. You people usually go to such lengths to convince people that this is all real?"

"Well, not to get into the specifics of it, but reality is a very subjective thing, lad...reinforced here and there by a few overlapping objective constants. Geez, that already sounds convoluted, doesn't it? Here, these stuff came in with you." Steve fetched out two objects from under the counter.

They were his trusty Swiss-army issue ballistic knife and his custom-made Luger. He looked at them skeptically.

"Why would these arrive with me?" he asked, though he didn't expect much of an answer.

"Well, I can only guess. Maybe because you need them? Maybe because they are, in some ways, a part of you?" Steve suggested.

"Uh huh," James took it with a pinch of salt as he sheathed the knife and put the Luger in the holster. "And...there was no shield?"

"There was no shield," Steve repeated emphatically.

James didn't know what to make of that.

"So, you ready to talk?" Steve had that aura of gingerly genuineness to him again.

"What would we talk about?" James attempted a grin, but it came off as a ludicrous cross between a snicker and a frown.

"About all kinds of things. I have a pretty broad mind, I would like you to know."  
"Hmm. You want me to talk about my...death," James cast his gaze downward, focusing intensely on the greenish-hue of the Pabst. Even in this surreal environment, it was a harsh truth to swallow.

"Well, that would be a good place to start," Steve offered helpfully.

"Yeah...I died twice, you know? I actually died after that plane blast. All they retrieved was my frozen corpse. I read it off their files; they used electroshock therapy and adrenaline in a half-baked attempt to create their own version of Super-Soldier Frankenstein, and somehow that brought me back. Hell of a luck, eh?" James gulped down a few more mouthfuls.

"Well, people have returned in more improbable ways, I can tell you that much," Steve chuckled to himself.

"Yeah...no revolving door for me this time around though, eh?" James asked half-heartedly.

"That isn't my place to say," Steve answered in an unusually grave tone.

"Not that I would ever want to go back, though. Maybe this is all I deserve. Whatever this is here...maybe this is right, for me. Right for everyone else, too."

"Now, that's a dangerously defeatist attitude," Steve warned him, caution evident in his alert eyes. "What this is here, is the start of a new, wonderful journey."

"What, are there going be rainbows and unicorns from here on out?" James laughed.

"If you want them to be there, sure," Steve replied cheekily.

"Steve...or whoever you are...you crack me up," James drowned the last dregs of the beer in one go. He burped mildly and got up from the seat.

"Look, all this moping...this ain't me. I need to take a walk. I am allowed to do that, right?"

"Of course you are. About the talk- don't worry about it. We have all the time in the world," Steve emphasised the last bits.

"Well, ain't that a pleasant thought..." James hoped the irony had gotten through. He turned around and headed for the big, ornate double-doored gate that stood at the edge of the humongous bar. "So if I walk in through that door, I can still come back here, right? No point of no return deal or anything like that?"

"Not at all."

"Well, I will be off, then," James felt a bit uneasy as he moved away from the bartender and his counter. "Aren't all your other customers a bit late, though?" He motioned at all the empty tables around him.

"Actually, they are all here. You are my last arrival, so far. You just-"

"Don't see them, right. See, I catch on fast, don't I? See you around, Steve," James waved him off and walked lazily towards the imposing gate. He took a deep breath, before grabbing both of the handles and pushing straight through.

A uniform barrage of white light overwhelmed his senses.

Then, it faded shortly after, replaced by a most curious sight.


	3. I Don't Want to Set the World on Fire

_**Chapter Two: I Don't Want To Set The World On Fire** _

* * *

Extravagantly flashy lights. Maroon wall-papers that looked like they cost a great deal more than most Joe Publics' lifetime salaries. Huge, elaborately designed chandeliers hung from the roof at an interval of every dozen square feet or so. Classy music was echoing through the built-in roof sound system.

"Whoah!" James was truly bewildered.

An afterlife casino. Now he had seen it all.

If this was any indication of his stay in here, then perhaps, he could get used to this.

All the usual excitements were to be found throughout the lot; Baccarat, Black Jack, Roulette, Poker, Slots- you name it. People were flocking to them like bees to honey.

He walked in, still taking in all the little details; the layout seemed to be an amalgamation of the most famous dens- Bellagio, MGM, Monte Carlo, The Mirage and so on- but there seemed to be a touch or two here and there that seemed entirely original, or may be from some backwater dig he hadn't heard of (which wasn't possible, because he had known them all in the course of his work over the years). Being occupied with such sightseeing, he didn't notice the man dressed in the black and white striped suit right in front of him, and accordingly, bumped right into his path.

"Sorry about that," James said without looking. When he did look up, he wished that he hadn't; the man's features were horribly disfigured.

For his own part, the man scoffed and walked around James, making an off-hand remark as he did so.

"Goddamned Supers. They walk around like they own the friggin place..."

He wandered around the general vicinity for a while. It was all so convincing; but he could already sense that something wasn't quite right. For one, he had never seen a fedora-wearing dealer work a game in any casino before. Compared to the strangeness of the crowd- there were all kinds of men and women and monsters to be found around the premises- that was actually a bit tame, he supposed.

Finally, he noticed someone he recognised, near a Roulette table. The sleek, body-fitting black bodysuit, complete with the distinctive golden torso design- and the bob cut- could only belong to one person. With relief, he approached the figure, who was surrounded by a host of other eager beavers participating in the game.

"Hey aren't you supposed to be-" he began, but she raised a hand and cut him off.

"Yeah, yeah. A little bit busy here!" she shouted out amongst all the yellings amongst the crowd.

"Alright, I will wait," James said with a grin. They placed their bets, and the dealer- a middle-aged man with reasonable looks (though James objected to the half-formed goatee)- accepted them with the usual aplomb and set the wheel in motion. After several nail-biting seconds, it came to a stop; several men and women erupted in deafening cheers of triumph.

Janet Van Dyne was not amongst them.

"What the hell, Chris?', she charged at the nonplussed dealer, "You told me my number was coming up this time!"

"Sorry about that," Chris raised his hands in apology, "You know how things are in the House. Last minutes changes to the Plan and what-not."

"Harumph! You better make good on that promise, little man. I had to bust my peachy behind working those favors for you, you know..." she turned around and walked off the table. She spotted James soon afterwards and smiled mischievously when she noticed the costume.  
"You are the one who called me, right?" she asked, dainty hands on flaring hips. She had the face (and attitude) of a movie star; with her social profile, James wondered why she hadn't ventured off into Hollywood in her lifetime. An opportunity sorely missed, he lamented.

"Yup, guilty as charged. Wanna get a drink?" he asked, motioning towards the nearby lounge.

"Know how to treat a girl alright, eh? Right, then. Lead the way, soldier."

* * *

"So...Bucky. Gosh, I feel like I am calling my grandpa by his first name," Janet giggled to herself. She was sipping steadily on a glass of mimosa.

"God, you know how to make a guy feel old," James loved to fool around with the pretty ones. "But everyone calls me Bucky- I am fine with that, really. You can also call me Jim, if you want."

"You don't look like a Jim," Janet noted wisely.

"Lady, I am not all surface...you know, what the folks say about judging a book by its cover. I have got layers, like...onions," he finished sheepishly. Lord, that was really sappy.

"You stole that from Shrek!" Janet broke off into a brief laughter riot.

"Yeah..." James chuckled a bit at his own expense, "Nat made me watch all types of movies. It's amazing how that girl does so many of these...normal things along with the usual stuff that we people do."

"That's how we cope with all the craziness," Janet explained. "Or at least, us girls do. We fight it with the power of trivia and distraction. Sue, me and Carol used to arrange these pedicure sessions every once in a while, and we would call in all the others we could find, and then…"

James put up his hands in mock resignation and buried his face in his arms.

"I give, I give. No more girl talk…"

"Alright, then," Janet sipped a bit more of Mimosa; a thoughtful look reigned on her elegant features. "So you were at the bar, right?"

"Yeah," James was relieved to know that it wasn't just him. "So the guy's name is really Steve?"

"Nah. When it was me in there, he introduced himself as Hank," Janet reminisced, an undercurrent of distaste evident in her contralto.

"That cheeky bastard," James muttered darkly. "Anyways, what is he supposed to be, really?"

"He's what they call a psychopomp," Janet paused a little, savoring James' confused expression before explaining further. "Literally, that means a soul conductor. They serve as guides for souls new to the afterlife. Near about every culture has one- or several- of those. The Greeks have Charon, the Norse have the Valkyrie; in Christianity, there is the Grim Reaper, or as Muslims call him, Azrael."

"So why did I end up with this 'Steve' instead of that other cheerful fellow?"

"Oh, Jim…Americanism is a legitimate culture; the KFCs and MacDonalds in third world countries can attest to that."

"But for Pete's sake, why a bartender?" James rolled his eyes in irritation.

"Well, most red-blooded Americans tend to be very comfortable around bartenders…they divulge all sort of dirty secrets, pour out their hearts and souls in one drunken haze or the other."

"Right...how come you know so much about this stuff?" James was genuinely curious.

"A girl has to know these kinds of things if she wants to get around this sort of place, Jim," she smiled, a far-away look present in her eyes, as though she was thinking of a million things in that moment. "Gambling for a chance at rebirth is a messy business. Maybe you have already noticed this, but the House always wins."

"Hasn't it always been that way?" James wondered, more to himself than anything else.

"I suppose so. Say, do you want to try your hand at this? I can give you a few pointers for the first few games," she offered.

"Ehh…I am not so sure. I have taken plenty of gambles in my lifetime, more than enough, I think. I really don't see the point right now, I suppose."

"Well, that can't be entirely truthful; otherwise, the door wouldn't have led you here. Come on, it will be a bit of harmless fun, okay? Matt, I think, is hosting the highest stakes poker game for this week. Let's go see him, why don't we?"

"Oh well, if you insist," James gave in. Janet seemed pleased; she didn't even have to make those doe eyes she was known for in the modeling world. The woman certainly knew her way around this place, James reckoned inwardly.

"Yes?" Matt asked, not looking up from his table. He was currently busy shifting through the aftermath of the last game, reshuffling the decks in proper order as the winners left with the spoils of war. He was young, easily younger than most of the staff; his spiky hair was gelled in, and he wore large, wooden framed spectacles that looked a tad too old-fashioned on his otherwise ultra-modern image.

"Hey Matt, it's me," Janet poked him gently again, "Look, I have got a friend who's interested in the next game, see? He's new. Why don't you show him around the bends for a bit?"

"I am busy, Janet. Seriously, very, very busy. Some other time?" he had still not bothered to look up at his visitors.

"Oh, come on! You know I put a good word or two in for you when you were still green and trying to climb up the ladder!" Janet shot a glare towards the errant dealer; but she took enough care to control the gesture such that it was more of a friendly plea than a hostile warning.

"They run a much tighter ship at the top level, hun. Can't walk two paces without having Joe or Axel's go about it," he commented morosely.

James shrugged; clearly this man had other things on his mind. "Let's leave the poor sap alone, eh? I think my hand at poker's pretty good as it is..." Jan frowned at the attempt; obviously she had put her foot down and was not in a mood to budge one inch.

"Listen to the voice of reason, eh dear?" Matt smiled sardonically, finally bothering to look up towards the two, "Look, I...ah. Well. So, this is your friend, right?" Matt had suddenly become unsually peevish.

"One and the same," Janet replied; Matt's sudden change of pace hadn't gone past her gaze. She knew something was up.

James thought the same.

"Hmm. You know what? I have a bit of a break right now that we could take advantage of...five minutes? Yeah. Alright then, man, why don't you come with me? To the back, we will have a little chat."

"Right...Jan, you aren't coming?" though James knew the answer; he could gauge it off her guarded expressions, not to mention how Matt had suppressed an urge to frown at the suggestion.

"Nah. I don't think I am wanted in there...you go and learn the tricks in there, Jim. Just don't forget who got you in," she smiled, half-seductively, half-casually. In that brief moment, she seemed like a curious cross between The Ice Queen and America's Sweetheart.

"Like I could forget a dame like you. Take care, Jan," James waved her off, already walking with Matt towards their destination.

"I always do," she replied, a glassy look in her hazel eyes.

* * *

The 'back' was exactly what James had expected it to be. A single table and two chairs on either end; singular bulb hanging above head, double-glazed glasses on either side. This was the interrogation room- where they took all the card counters and other sorts of cheaters for a good talking down.

Matt was pacing the room, hand absent-mindedly stroking the stubble on his chin while he waited for the intercom to connect to the other end.

"Yeah...Ed? Come in over to the back, would you? There's been a...development. It's better if you see it for yourself."

" _Right. Wait a minute,"_ a voice poured through the intercomm, and then the line broke off.

"Matt..." James began carefully, fingers tapping the partex while his eyes were focused steadily on the dealer, "I don't think this has anything to do about poker."

"Yeah," Matt laughed nervously as he took a seat, "You were always smart like that, weren't you? Bullheaded, but smart. Relax...the guy who handles your sphere of influence will be here shortly. He will explain it better than I would."

James nodded, his eyes wandering around the corners of the cramped room. He had already figured out seven different ways to get out of there if they intended to detain him and push came to shove. But somehow, he figured that wasn't going to be the case.

After a few tentative seconds, the door swung open and a similarly dressed staff member stepped through. He recognised this dealer; it was the one with the fedora. The man's gaze fixed immediately on James, and his mouth fell slightly agape and his eyes vacillated; he soon recovered his composure and straightened his rim-less glasses, focusing his newly-found fury straight towards Matt.

"Jesus, Matt. I can't believe you screwed up the first major gig they handed you," he spoke calmly, his features relaxed and his posture more or less casual, but his tone bore the full brunt of his venom- it was so accusatory that Matt couldn't help but wince in reaction.

"Hey, easy there! This snafu did NOT come from my end. You think Brian had something to do with this...?"

"It wouldn't be the first time he jumped before looking, certainly," Ed took the seat beside Matt. He was in damage control mode, "But my gut tells me he has nothing to do with this."

"Then who else? Not many get to play with our particular sandbox, as it were."

"Hmm..." Ed was lost in thought.

"You know guys, you are free to explain yourselves to me, anytime you like," James said with a shit-eating grin plastered on his face.

"Quiet! Don't you see he is thinking..." Matt scoffed in a faux-whisper.

"Matt...I think I know what this is. It sort of makes sense...Jesus. You go arrange a meeting with the usual suspects, right? Let me wrap up things on this end."

"Wait...is this what I think it is?" Matt asked apprehensively.

"Yeah. Code 34," Ed confirmed gravely.

"Christ. Well, I will get going, then," he hastily rose from the chair and broke off into a stride. He paused before walking out the door, turning towards his colleague one last time as he did so. "Good luck on sorting him out."

The door closed with a large THUD. Ed now stared intently at James for a few moments before speaking.  
"Look. You aren't supposed to be here, alright? Something's happening around here that isn't...right. You don't want to get caught in the crossfire, trust me. Get out of here, as quick as you can."

"Just like that?" James was understandably puzzled.

"Yup. Just like that. Listen, there are things at work here that you can't possibly understand. What you are here, is an anomaly. Or maybe...more of a symptom, of something terrible, far worse than you can imagine."

"Right...whatever's coming, is there a way to fight it? You know what the wise guys say- if there's a will, there's a way."

"Hah. You are a headstrong guy, ain't ya?" Ed shook his head, a most serious expression reigning on his features as he continued on. "What I am talking about...you can't fight it. You can't delay it. It will consume you. But it's not the right time...so you have to run, alright?You talk to anyone here for long?"

"Yeah, Janet Van Dyne. Why?"

"Good lord. She's the worst of the lot. You stay clear off her. There are all kinds of people who would love to get their hands on the sort of advantages you possess in your current situation. Avoid any sort of contact in the casino- just run straight for the door."

"You mean the bar?"

"Yeah. The guy in there will take care of you. You will be safe in there...for a while longer than here, at least."

"Say...why are you so concerned about my safety? What does it mean to you?" James couldn't make head or tail out of this guy.

"Let's just say, I have a vested interest in your survival. Now what are you waiting for?" Ed suddenly rose from the chair, walked over to the door and opened it. "Get going!"

* * *

There was a new song playing over the speakers, now. James paused, if only briefly, to savor it. It was his kind of song. It brought back a lot of memories- good, bad and a lot of things in-between.

He walked around, blending into the right crowds at the right moment as he slowly headed for the door. On the way, he picked up a black leather jacket with a hoodie- perfect for hiding his neon-sign of a costume.

The people were still busy doing the usual hustle and bustle; did they have any idea about what was coming to them, he wondered. Heck, he didn't know why he was jumping through these hoops in the first place- all he had were the cryptic words of a mysterious fedora-wearing casino dealer. But he had done operations with stranger sources of intel, he supposed.

He spotted Janet about halfway through; she was alert, as if on the lookout for someone. He deftly steered away as far away from her as he could. Soon, he spotted several others sifting through the crowds in similar manners- he recognised Swordsman, Doctor Druid, and Brother Voodoo from the Avengers files. So they were intent on ganging up on him, eh? Not if he had any say about it.

The door was now in his visual range. The problem, though, was that there was a tall, green, alien-looking warrior, dressed in a purple costume with a skull insignia belt, guarding it. Coolly, he reached for his Luger as he drew ever nearer to his destination. Besides the magic hammers and repulsor gloves and other similarly fascinating gizmos, his handgun might not look like much; but then again, David's sling was not very inconspicuous either. The gun packed one hell of a punch.

A few lovetaps to the liver should do it.

He braced himself for the move; but then he saw him at the corner of his eyes- scraggy brown hair down to the shoulders, long leather trenchcoat, imploring eyes staring straight through him. Jack Monroe.

James stopped dead in this tracks. He knew. He knew that Jim had gunned him down and dumped him his corpse in the middle of nowhere in the trunk of a '76 Camaro. He hadn't seen his wife and daughter in the last three years. He would never see them again.

James was transfixed; he half expected Jack to attack any second. But he didn't. He just stood in the distance and stared, dead on in the eyes of his killer. And somehow, that was a thousand times worse.

Suddenly, James felt as though his skull had exploded, and he went down on the floor from the tremendous impact. He looked up to see a large purple-gloved fist swing towards his face, and he ducked out of the way, quickly bringing out his Luger to take out his assailant as quickly as possible.

He never got the chance to squeeze the trigger.

The ground started to shaking violently. The green warrior was thrown off balance, and James took his chance, elbowing the alien in the chest, and followed it up with a right hook that sent him reeling on the floor. He kicked him in the back to ensure that he stayed down for a while longer.

He looked around quickly as he moved towards the door; the others had grown alerted to his presence and were trying to hurry to his position, but current developments were proving quite the obstacles in their paths. There were cracks starting to appear on the roof; a chandelier fell down straight onto the heads of several bystanders. Panic and chaos was at an all-time high.

If Ed's words were any indication, this was probably just the trailer. And James wasn't going to wait around until the movie started right then and there.

He grabbed the door handles and swung, shielding his eyes from the blinding whiteness as he walked into it and snapped the doors shut.


	4. M Stands For Magic

_**Chapter Three: M stands for Magic** _

* * *

"Back already?" Steve was cleaning his glasses again- maybe he had nothing better to do in this place, James reckoned, as he approached the bar with due haste.

"There was a disturbance. Long story...you know anything about a guy named Ed?" Steve's eyes lit up at the name.

"Yes. What about him?" the bartender had put down the glasses, his full attention now focused entirely on James.

"He said that something bad was happening. Really bad...he mentioned a Code 34."

Steve placed a hand on his temple, creasing it uneasily as he spoke quietly, his usually firm voice noticeably unsteady as he did so. "Figured it would come to this sooner or later. It's that time of the year again...Look, we need to get you out of here. Follow me."

Steve broke into a sprint, running to the northwest corner of the room, and James started running after him. His eyes fell towards the myriads of tables, the "RESERVED" signs still sitting over them.

"Hey, what about your other customers...?" James asked with sudden concern.

"They left."

"Are you sure? I don't know if..."

"Yes, I am sure! You need to worry about yourself, young man!" Steve yelled impatiently at James. They had reached the corner; Steve pressed something invisible on the left wall, and soon a secret door popped open, revealing a elevator made out of some entirely transparent material. He quickly the buttons by its side and instantly the door slid open.

"Get in, quickly...what are you waiting for?" Steve was sweating bullets- both literally and metaphorically. James meanwhile, had spotted something peculiar happening at the dome-shaped roof.

"You see that?" he pointed at the dome, which was splitting apart, slowly but surely, at its tip and bending apart like it was made out of cardboard. Something peeked at the opening; James thought that those sinister, yellow balls to be eyes but he couldn't entirely sure either way. "It's already begun here, hasn't it?"

"Looks that way. Now do you want it to come and get you? Quick, if you want to live!"

"That sounds like an oxymoron..." James felt like he had to quip such silly things in the face of madness. Maybe he had picked it off being in such close proximity to Spider-man these days.

The doors snapped shut as soon as they had stepped in. It moved down at a serene pace, and that allowed James to experience unfolding chaos down to every last minute detail. He could spot the casino- if it could be called that anymore; it had become detached from the 'bar', and all four corners of it was collapsing in onto a two-dimensional plane, like a hollow bag of polythene being squeezed into a sheet. Everything was starting to become a sheet, in fact. Multi-colored, dazzling-looking, terrible-sounding sheets. The material of the elevators seemed to block out most of the noise- but what little got through put this brain (if that's what it really was) through the mother of all migranes.

"Holy...just what the hell is happening out there, Steve?" James said, massaging the sides of his temple furiously as he did so.

"Well...your consciousness is shaping the sensory output that you are getting, trying to use science to make some sense of what's happening around here. You are seeing two-dimensional planes floating around in vacuum, right?"

James nodded.

"Well, a major development in 20th Century Earth Physics is the development of string theories, also known as M-Theory. I am figuring you know something about it, or else you wouldn't seeing it here."

"I may have read about it recently, yes..." James wasn't entirely sure. Memories were starting to get very jumbled up at the moment.

"Hmm. Different 'membrane' universes- each with varying laws of physics- that float around in hyperspace, occasionally influencing another, causing a variety of effects, one of which might be the origin of gravity itself. Heh...you humans can dream up some crazy stuff. You know, over time, what the M in M-theory means has become very vague and undefined. You people can't even decide on the name...let alone one single unifying theory for all the stuff!"

"Maybe the M stands for Magic," James offered. To be truthful, he was a bit unnerved by how condescending Steve had become in the last few minutes.

"Hmm. Food for one's thought, isn't it...?" Steve pressed a button, and suddenly the elevator stopped. "We are here."

"But it's the middle of nowhere," James did not like where this was going.

"Exactly," Steve had a dark gleam in his beady eyes. He balled up his fists and suddenly swung for James' jaw. James saw the suckerpunch coming a mile away- but for some reason he couldn't move one bit. The attack connected and James went down, a stream of blood spurting from his mouth. He tried to roll away immediately and attempt a counterattack, but he couldn't move one finger. Steve fished out the Luger from James' holster, clicked back the safety, and aimed it straight for his skull.

"I am sorry..."

James prepared for the worst. What happened when a guy died in the afterlife, he wondered.

Steve, however, was not so steadfast in carrying out this betrayal; he wavered, his face contorting, providing glimpses of the confliction emotions raging inside him. Eventually, he gave in, and lowered the handgun, his other hand covering his eyes- and also, perhaps, his shame.

"Goddamn it. The things they make me do for this job..." James realised that he could move again. He sprang to his feet immediately and prepared to lunge at Steve, but he was so utterly defeated that it seemed pointless. Steve was averting his gaze, and handed the Luger back to James. "All I ever wanted was to help people..."

"Steve...just what the hell was that back there?!" James tried as much as possible to temper his rage and fury.

"They wanted me to put you under. It removes any unforeseen complications from your unexpected arrival here. That Code 34 was the key."

Never trust a fedora-wearing casino dealer, James reckoned.

"That son of a...he set me up!"

"It's not his fault...you just aren't meant to be here. But if I left you here like that though, it really would have been the death of you. In a permanent sense."

Steve pushed a couple of buttons and the elevator started moving again, but this it didn't only move downwards- it moved sideways, in diagonals, zig-zagging- you name it. It was highly dizzying, to say the least.

"What do you mean, permanently? Like I would be wiped out of existence...?"

"Well, not really. There would be a you running around top-side soon enough, I wager, all fine and dandy. He would be just like you in all the right aspects; but you won't be him. What you are now would just be...dead. Forgotten."

"...Simplify, Steve," this mumbo jumbo crap was doing a real number to his mind.

"Well, I suppose I can try," Steve sighed deeply, before starting. "What do you think are the building blocks of the universe?"

"Atoms, molecules...sub-atomic particles and the rest of those things. Science has been never my strong point," James had always been interested in other things- like dames, for one- even before the war.

"Right. But what makes hydrogen nuclei to fuse in such a way to turn to heavier, helium nuclei?How would you define the precise nature of the wave-particle duality which manifests in so many different ways throughout the universe? For that matter, what exactly determines that water boils around 100 degrees celsius?"

James shrugged. Steve pursed his lips before resuming once again.

"It's information. Information is the underlying infrastructure of the universe. For stuff that requires only one possible outcome, there's a binary system- true or false. With more broader, imprecise matters, you have a range, say, xyz. Ideas are the true underpinnings of our reality. Energy and matter just stand on the shoulders of these giants," Steve finished emphatically.

"Alright...I will play along. So what does that have to do with whatever's happening around us?"

"What is happening here, is that objective truths are breaking down. Reality is starting to lose its non-locality. Everything is about to go through a major shift. Subjective truths will be taking hold soon...and eventually, the lines will be blurred completely. Everything will be true/false. The range of y will be between positive and negative infinity. Like a big, apocalyptic petri-dish of gibberish. This has happened many times before, actually."

"What...? Then how come no one picked up on it before? On Earth, or space or whatever...?" James was finding this very hard to believe.

"A lot of people did. None of them remember it. Think of this like a giant reset button. Like that movie you humans have... _The Matrix?_  It's a vicious cycle, really."

"This is a very...fascinating discussion, no doubt," James attempted to steer the conversation towards his intended target, "But I still don't see how I am really affected by all this."

"...What do you think you are? In here, I mean?"

"Dead?" there was that shit-eating grin on his face again.

"Yeah, there's that. But look, there's a reason you arrived here in the star-spangled banner. You are more of an idea, a concept, than you are a man. A theory, a paradigm, a symbol," Steve was almost reverential.

"Gee, thanks...you flatter me..."

"There are certain ideas that people keep coming back to, like say, democracy, freedom, happiness prosperity and all that...but they constantly change it, twist it and shape it to according to their own perceptions. They are constantly adding in stuff and throwing some bits out. They are effectively dismantling the original ideas, building new, distant facsimiles in its place.

If you get caught up in this, Jim...what you are will cease to exist. Maybe something will come out of that, maybe it won't. Regardless, your idea will die. You want to fade into oblivion?"

"Well, if you put it like that..." James laughed nervously. He was undergoing weirdness overload. But somehow, it all made sense. And the small part of him that understood it all wanted to curl up in a corner and die. "How am I going to get out of this, then?"

"Let me look..." Steve stuck his hands into his trouser pockets and seemed to rummage around them for a few moments. "Ahh. I might have some things for you."

He brought out a small, rolled up parchment from his left pocket, and a strange, double-edged ceramic dagger from the right one. The blades were shaped like that of an axe.

Steve handed the roll of parchment to James, who opened it up. It seemed like a map, with a large ink dot showing its current position. He noticed that the areas closest to the dot were presented in the greatest details, and the boundaries grew increasingly more vague until they faded out abruptly. A large compass was drawn on the upper-right corner, and the pointer wasn't pointing North, and more surprisingly, was vibrating to and fro constantly.

"I think this is pretty self-explanatory. But where would this lead me to...?"

"I don't know..." Steve seemed lost in thought. "There is a legend, a bit of an old wives tale, really...that some of the discarded, forgotten ideas managed to shelter themselves from one of the worldstorms and built themselves a refuge...a sort of paradise for lost ideas, really. Something like limbo, you could say."

"That sounds awfully hokey, Steve."

"It might be your only hope. Take this, too," he handed the ceramic dagger over to Jim.

"This looks nice...but I don't really see the use. I got a better one already, actually," he pointed to his ballistic knife.

"That looks like a talisman...it should help to delay the breaking down of non-locality in your surrounding reality, giving you the time to escape...oh. It also acts like a beacon, it seems, to other souls in similar plights. That's good; you will need help if you want to get through this."

"Well...I will take your word for it," James stored both items in the pouches around his belt. Soon afterwards, the elevator stopped.

"You aren't going to start beating me up again, are you?" James wasn't entirely sure at this point.

"Hah. No. Look ahead. Don't you recognise that?" Steve offered to the now open doors. A large, multi-hued construct loomed below him; ever thinning strands twisted here and there as they stood apart from the main body, with large spherical globules of light hanging at their tips. He recognised the object after a few moments of rumination.

"Hey...that's the Asgardian tree, isn't it? The World Ash?"

"Yeah. Yggdrasil. That's your stop right here. I can't accompany you any further," Steve seemed curiously sad.

"Alright..." James walked over to the edge of the door, gripping the sides tightly. "Why are you helping me, Steve? What are you gaining out of this?"

"Nothing, actually. I am one of those spirits who can't place his own needs and the greater good above any one else, and maybe I am the fool for it," Steve laughed softly.

"You are an alright guy in my book," James slapped the man on the shoulder, "See you around, Steve."

"Yeah. Maybe you will. Now go!"

James nodded one last time before flunging himself off the elevator, diving straight for the middle of the multi-coloured tree. As he grew nearer and nearer, some of the branches reacted to his presence and approached him, gently wrapping around his body steadily. They guided him down the correct path, and soon his vision was entirely blinded by the extravagant vistas swimming in front of him.

James knew he was way over his head.

He half-hoped that all of this was just a dream. But he knew that he couldn't dream up anything as strange and weird as the stuff he had gone through over the past few hours.

He wondered about the stuff Steve had said to him. He was an idea? What did he actually represent? He never had been the straight and narrow type like...the other Steve, or believed in anything as much as he had. Then there was all that other stuff that he had done. In the end, was he even a  _good_ idea?

He couldn't let that sort of negative thinking cloud his purpose. He pushed it to the back of his mind and focused on his goal. There were a million questions swimming around his head...but one stuck out like a sore thumb above all the rest.

Where do ideas go when they die?

It looked like he was about to find out.


	5. The Dead and The Cold

Balder jumped from his horse, his legs bent as he landed squarely on the desiccated ground. He drew his sword with tremendous force, and the resulting friction produced the first few notes of a shrill and violent song. The Asgardian advanced towards his remaining foe with perfect poise.

Although cornered, the monster was still overly aggressive. It roared as it lunged towards him, jaws wide and teeth bared. It burned with a terrible, unnatural hunger. In the form of its enemy, garbed in ringmail forged by the finest of dwarven smiths, it saw easy prey.

Balder, however, was anything but. He met the beast with equal vigor, shouting forth a great cry as he swung his claymore vertically in an arc. His aim, honed by millennia of experience, was true; the edge caught the beast mid-lunge, right in the gut, and dug into it, easily piercing past the vulnerable innards. The creature fell to the ground with a thud, the last of its brethren to do so.

For now, the demons had been vanquished. Surtur wouldn't feast on his kin today, and that would have to be victory enough for Balder.

Balder watched the felled creature as it tried to breathe. Tried not to die. And he felt pity, for he sensed something in it that seemed to be, if not good, then certainly not evil. What this poor thing must have been before, he wondered, its form and shape had twisted by Limbo beyond all recognition. Such profane knowledge was lost to the ravages of time.

Balder watched, as the fire in those lava-red eyes burned through its last few embers. And as he watched, he spoke to the creature. He told it that he was sorry. That it was okay to die. That it had died for a good cause, so there was nothing to fear in oblivion.

The beast could not know his words, but something in those red eyes stirred, as it breathed its last. In that final gesture, the Last King of Asgard saw that it had understood.

Balder the Brave was the Last King of Asgard. After he had perished in that final, foolish charge against the World Eaters, Odin All-Father had resumed leadership. And Odin, son of Bor, son of Buri, was not a king, but a dictator, a tyrant, a despot, if at times a benevolent one.

And thus Balder was the Last King. He found it fitting that this dubious honor should fall upon him. It illustrated his failures rather succinctly. Rarely did any Last King of any kingdom perform admirably in his duties, and Balder was no exception.

He had been indecisive. Doubtful. Gullible. He had despaired when he should have rallied. He had faltered when he should have charged.

And thus he bore his shame, as he was wont to do. He wore it, even now, like a badge, and wielded it, turning his one weakness into his strength. Redemption was scarce to come by in Limbo, but he had an eternity to wait for it.

Presently, his six kinsmen joined him on their horses, their own battles won. They were dead folk like he, given to his command under the auspices of fell Hela. The battles were over for the day; they had a few hours to rest and regain their strength and vigor. They rode on, with Balder at their helm, towards their camp. There they would sit, ever vigilant; to sleep would be to allow their eventual enemies undue advantage. And they would sit silently, except for every sixth day, for they had agreed earlier on that tall tales and merry ballads were best conserved in their usage, least they become trite and unbearable with excess.

And thus they rode north. They would have ridden from dusk till dawn, if Balder hadn't spotted a most curious phenomenon. For he had seen a tree in the horizon, and that was a most unusual thing to see. Limbo was a featureless expanse. It had no need for trees, forests, rivers and mountains. It was fine by itself.

Balder consulted with his brothers in arms about the matter. It seemed that only he could see this strange tree. This intrigued Balder even more. He ordered his followers to change direction, for he wished to investigate this anomaly.

Now they rode southwest, for what seemed like hours at end. The tree edged closer and closer, and Balder precluded the possibility of it being a mirage. Thus he rode on all the harder. His kinsmen were hard pressed to match his enthusiasm. They were not entirely thrilled at being bid to chase spectres, but they were duty-bound to do as their liege had asked.

The hours grew. The day would have turned into night, but there were no such distinctions in Limbo. Eventually, the oldest and most experienced of his kinsmen protested that they must return to camp, for the time available for rest was growing shorter and shorter. Balder understood his reasoning, but curiosity had been lit afire in his heart. The burning was too bright to ignore. He sent the toughest and most capable men back to camp, and kept only two arms bearers in his company.

The three Norsemen rode on for a bit more. After a while, the tree was close enough for Balder to make out distinct spheres floating from its branches. That removed any further doubts from his mind.

The tree was the World Ash: Yggdrasil in the Old Tongue. He knew now why he saw it: it was a summons, and it was meant for him alone. He told his men as such and bade them goodbye, and they left him, with heavy hearts. The Fates were not kind when they called on dead gods.

Now Balder rode on, alone. Dark thoughts circled inside his head. The World Ash was a canny thing; it helped those it fancied, and cursed those it loathed. Such preferences came rather arbitrarily, and weren't easily discerned by its playthings. And why, indeed, did it choose Balder, when he was a piece long discarded from the chessboard? The possibilities were limitless, each more frightening than the last.

Balder steeled himself against such circular introspection. The Fates had chosen him, and there was nothing he could do about it. Better to ride on and meet his destiny, than to fret and whine about it like a petulant child.

He rode on and on. Eventually, the journey proved too exhausting for his loyal mount: it neighed in despair and collapsed to the ground. Balder dismounted and patted the beast on its back and stroked its luxurious, black mane. He kissed it on the head and bade it to sleep, and the beast obeyed, finding relief in the embrace of slumber. The last leg of this journey had to be covered on foot.

He smiled at this particular turn of fortune. This journey was meant for him and him alone. So be it.

He walked and walked. Thankfully, he did not have to walk much longer. It came to pass that he reached the World Ash at last.

It loomed over him, giant and ominous. It was pulsating with an unknown, limitless energy. Balder knelt in front of it on one knee and closed his eyes. He prayed in the Old Tongue: a solemn murmuring of taut intonations. Apprehension, temporarily banished, now returned, and reigned supreme in his heart.

Odin had hung from the World Ash for nine days and nine nights and gouged his right eye. Only then had he been granted supreme knowledge, so that he might rule over the Nine Worlds. What would it ask of him, Balder wondered. Whatever it was, he expected nothing in return. The price would be too steep.

He rose to his feet and touched the trunk of the World Ash. The bark, once thick and sturdy, became malleable, as though dissolving into some sort of ooze. Balder's fingers sunk into it, and when he tried to withdraw them, he found that he could not. An inexorable pull from within the tree worked on his body, and it tugged at him with great force. His wrist disappeared, followed by his hand, shoulder, head and torso, and then the World Ash swallowed him whole.

And with that, the Last King of Asgard was in Limbo no more.

* * *

They lay there, naked on the hard floor. They were coiled around each other, and their shared bodily warmth protected them from the cold. James' head lay resting, upon her breast, and he could hear the faint murmur of her heartbeat. It always remained calm whenever he could hear it. That was who she was: steel-willed, yet lovely and graceful as the morning flower. A deadly contradiction that had claimed the lives of many, and may yet claim his before all was said and done.

Her hands grasped his head, and lifted him slightly, so that she could face him with her eyes. Her straight, blood-red locks framed her pale face perfectly; she appeared frozen in time, a snapshot of eternal beauty. Yet, in that singular moment, the wisdom of her years became visible. It revealed countless scars: scars of wars, of betrayals, of loves lost and gained. She stared deep into his eyes, and her face became burdened with concern.

"It will be alright," she said to him, an understanding smile upon her ruby lips. "Don't be afraid."

"Nat, I..." he began, but he could not finish.

He gasped, for he felt the air knocked out him all at once. Before he could make sense of anything, a terrible force yanked him away from her. He zoomed away at an unfathomable speed, accelerating to even greater levels. Everything started collapsing in on itself, like the folded edges of a paper sheet being flattened into a single plane.

James' eyes shot open. He was awake, and he was falling.

He screamed, flailing his arms around and turning his head in all directions. Then he realised what a foolish gesture it was: there was nothing in the sky for him to gawk at. There was only him, ripping through the air like a stone, and the innumerable pellets of snow hitting him squarely in the chest. And soon there wouldn't be him, but rather pieces of him left, judging by the height of the fall.

He calmed himself, as much as he could. The last thing he could remember was the tree. What did Steve call it? Yggdrasil: the World Ash. It had wrapped itself around him, and was carrying him through to some unknown destination. Its embrace had been so reassuring, as though it knew everything that needed to be done. James had let go, and for that endless moment which stretched on and on, all his fears and doubts had evaporated into nothingness.

But now that moment had passed, and the tree was gone. But his ride was just beginning, and nobody had informed him about the level of turbulence he was experiencing at the moment.

Having died once already, he didn't want to find out what would happen the next time. He curled himself into a fetal position and put his hands above his head, and waited.

The impact hit him like a sledgehammer, and his insides recoiled violently. He rolled three times along the ground, before coming to rest.

He opened his eyes. Snow was everywhere. Still, a fall of such altitude would have been fatal enough even if he had fallen into the softest river. It took a great deal more to kill dead men than live ones, he realised with a painful grimace.

He got up, nursing his aching limbs to life as he did so. The pain was already fading, as though some magical catalyst had spurred on the healing process. He looked down at his torso, which had become grotesque; three ribs poked out of his flesh, muscle and sinew still sticking to the bones in clustered formations. Bile rose to his throat, and he felt a strong urge to vomit; this was quite remarkable, for he couldn't remember the last time he had eaten. Perhaps, he drank something in that bar?

James ignored the grossness of the situation and touched these protrusions, gingerly, and then pressed them back into his chest. The wounds in his chest began to close, with only the holes in his gleaming blue chest-piece left behind as a reminder. The lurching feeling in his belly returned. He brushed it off and straightened his right arm, which had been dislocated from the shoulder, and pushed violently. A crunching sound followed, and the sharp resurge in pain was enough to push him down to his knees. He rose back up again, clearing his mind of all the unpleasantness.

There was nothing to see for miles and miles. It wasn't because of the snow, for it fell gently and sparsely at the moment. That was something he would want to worry about later; if he knew anything about frozen wastelands, the weather was only about to get worse. No, it was the mist, an unnatural, persisting fog that obscured his vision beyond a few dozen feet.

James fetched the map from one of his pouches, and unrolled it. There was the large ink dot, namely him, in a large, level clearing mostly devoid of any landmarks. There were ridged formations a little farther to the northwest. Glaciers, he presumed. There was a gathering of trees a little further beyond to the east: this must be a forest. The ink became increasingly hazy after that, and the last thing that was visible before it faded completely was a mountain range to the north, curved in their alignment like a bow. The mountain in the middle loomed larger over the others. In the right corner, the compass had stopped spinning, and the arrow now pointed unwaveringly north.

The mountains it was, then.

James hoped that they were the worst obstacles he would face in this land. This place might have seemed relatively calm- ordinary, even. But the memory of the sudden turmoil that had gripped the Bar and the Casino still burned bright in his mind, and he wasn't about to let this false sense of security lull him into complacency.

With hardened resolve, James struck out towards north. The mist proved to be a frustrating barrier, but the real foe was the cold. For now, it was deceptively hospitable: the wind that now flowed to the south wasn't really a wind, but rather a strong breeze. The snow rose up to a little above James' ankles. It wouldn't rise higher until he reached the shadow of the mountains, he reckoned.

The cold, however, was a capricious foe; it was gauging him, observing him for his strengths and weaknesses, and when it would choose to strike, it would sneak up on him quieter than the stealthiest thief. James had seen it often enough; he had seen it happen to his friends, his enemies and even to himself on a couple of occasions.

At first you start to shiver, your teeth chatter, and you stamp your feet and dream of beer and warm fires. Then it starts to burn. And nothing burns like the cold; but it only burns for a little while. It sets in your very bones and saps you of your strength and resolve, and eventually you can't resist it. It's easier to just sit down and go to sleep.

And that's when it goes for the coup de grace. When death comes, you don't have enough sensitivity left to feel any pain near the end. You become weak, start feeling drowsy, and then everything fades away. Death welcomes you, like an old friend, offering you a comfy blanket and warm milk. It is peaceful, a final end to prolonged suffering.

Back in the war, he had met a German POW in Remagen, who said that he had fought in Stalingrad. He lost his ears, three toes and his left pinky to the cold. He joked that he had gotten off lightly. A short while after, James and Steve had discovered a couple of Allied soldiers, frozen and buried three feet in the snow. One of them was sitting upright, M1 gripped firmly on his lap, a haunting smile plastered on his ghostly face. There were a lot of things James had forgotten over the years, but that smile, unfortunately, wasn't one of them.

James continued on his trek uninterrupted for a good two hours. Afterwards, he stopped by a giant rock formation that was oddly shaped: it twisted as it rose upwards, growing thinner and thinner until it ended at a pointy tip. It was carved, he realised, to look like a horn, standing upside down.

That meant this place wasn't as uninhabited as he had previously thought. But then, he reasoned, the carvings could have been made thousands of years ago. All conjectures, at this point.

He sat upon a small, round boulder and fetched his map out again from a pouch. The large ink dot in the center had barely moved, a millimeter or two at most. He had covered at least five miles during that two-hour slog, he reckoned. He estimated the scale distance from his current location to the mountains and made some internal calculations. It rounded up to around two hundred and twenty miles, give or take a few. That put it around six days of travelling, maybe five days if he shed off some sleep for a day or two.

It wasn't the most difficult trek he had ever faced, but it wasn't exactly a walk in the park, either. He had no supplies or knowledge of the terrain or possible hostiles. James glanced briefly at his torso; the glimmer of the blue over-shirt had dulled, but the entire ensemble still stuck out a like sore thumb in all the whiteness. He smiled glumly; he would have dressed more appropriately- and more inconspicuously- if he had known beforehand he was going to be in a frozen wasteland for some time.

He looked up, ready to get off the boulder and resume his journey. But he froze. His mind went to full alert as his hand immediately darted towards the holster. The outline of a shadowy figure was visible through the fog. It was a dozen feet away at most, and it was getting closer.

James gripped the handle of his Luger tightly and pulled back the safety lock. He didn't make any sudden move, but waited there, sitting on the boulder. As it approached, James noticed that it wasn't standing upright, but was prone and on all of its limbs. Yet it rose up to three and a half feet easily.

Perhaps it was a pony?

But as the animal drew closer, James could tell that the leg to body ratio wasn't quite right. It was wide, definitely of greater girth than a pony, but it wasn't wide enough to be as big as a bear. That left only two possibilities: something canine or feline.

And with James being where he was, there could only be one answer.

The beast stopped when it was within three feet of him. It was indeed a wolf, but it was larger than any wolf he had ever seen. It was positively monstrous. It stretched over five feet in length. Strong muscles pulsed all over. Its head was bigger than that of a typical gray wolf, and its legs were longer in proportion to its body. Its snout and jaw were markedly leaner and more pronounced. Golden eyes peered at him; a stark contrast to the thick, snow-white coat which blended in perfectly with the background.

Could James take it on, in the event of a worst-case scenario? Maybe; but he would have to be quick about it. There would only be a slim window of opportunity, and it would be game over after that. The wolf was powerful enough to rip his arm right out of its socket. And if it had hunted other human prey before, it would know to go straight for his throat before anything else.

Presently, the wolf stood still, staring intently at him, as though it was sizing him up. Then, apparently satisfied, it barked, a hoarse, crackling sound, and turned its head to its right. It waited, as though for James' response.

James watched, unmoving.

The wolf kept on waiting, barking once or twice to break the silence. At this point, James was nonplussed. Did the wolf expect him to do something?

After a minute of this stalemate had passed, the wolf growled and came closer, going straight for James' feet as it did so. He lifted his Luger above his waist ever so slightly, careful not to attract the animal's attention with it. He started to rise from the boulder, but the wolf was too quick for him. It honed in on his left foot and bared its teeth, terribly sharp fangs that could probably tear his leg in half. It grabbed onto the legging of his black bodysuit and pulled, causing James to slide off the boulder and into the snow.

In that instant, terror gripped his mind and adrenaline started to kick in, but he resisted the temptation to level his Luger at the animal and fire at point blank range. If the wolf had wanted to mangle him, it had ample opportunity to do so. It didn't make sense to waste this much time. Clearly, the wolf wanted something from him. But what?

And then it dawned on him.

"Do you want me to follow you?" James said out loud. He felt monumentally stupid for an instant, but that passed when the wolf barked once again and turned around, wagging its tail expectantly as it did so.

James smiled, still incredulous at the prospect of a trained wolf, especially one this large and fierce. Nevertheless, he rose up from the ground and dusted his clothes off. The wolf started striding, and James was forced to quicken his gait as well to keep up with the animal.

The wolf led him on, into the thick embrace of the mist and the unknown. As James followed, he couldn't shake off the remnants of the suspicion that had persisted since the wolf had appeared. Perhaps this wolf was domesticated, but that didn't reveal anything about its masters. What if it was leading him into a trap? Travelling bands of looters in such situations weren't uncommon. If he did find himself in the company of such a group, then he would be at a distinct disadvantage.

James grunted in exasperation. Paranoia was something that came to him naturally now, and he hated that. Another reminder of how his life had been ruined during the years he had been... lost. He put his mind off any further suspicions for the time being. He would cross that bridge when he came to it.

After some time, the wolf started to slow down, its nose lowered to the ground as it sniffed for something. It then proceeded, gingerly, until they reached their target. James relaxed, chiding himself for thinking the man in front of him could have ever posed a threat.

He lay limp on the snow, coughing softly as he acknowledged the arrival of his loyal companion and the help it had fetched in the form of James. He had a noble, proud visage that had grown deathly pale. He looked like a man who was entirely suited for the environment: a large cloak of thick, black fur was wrapped around a leather ensemble, also colored in black; it was torn violently near the gut. The snow around him was soaked with dry blood, and a sword lay beside him; the steel below the hilt was completely shattered.

His manner of clothing, coupled with his raven-black, shoulder length hair (and mild stubble) made him like look something out of the Middle Ages. A lord or a knight of some noble heritage, James reckoned.

The man smiled with great difficulty when the wolf nudged his cheeks.

"Good girl," he said softly. He turned to James and took a moment to observe the man's appearance. "You are dressed oddly."

"Well,'' James paused as he crouched, so that he was on level ground when he spoke to the stranger. "It's a long story. How long have you been in this condition?"

"An hour, give or take ten minutes," the man replied. "Can you help?" he asked, the worry evident in his voice.

James sighed. "Let me have a look."

James unfastened the leather tunic and pried it apart, resisting the urge to wince at the sight before him. A large gash stretched from side to side across his gut. The cut hadn't been deep, but it had done enough damage. James touched his cold flesh and a spurt of blood squirted out of the wound.

It was astounding that the man had survived as long as he did. The wound was already starting to fester; gangrene was visible at the edges. It would have been a stretch to keep this man alive if James had a first aid kit at his beck and call. As things were at the moment, it was simply hopeless. James reached for the man's hand and checked his pulse. It was quite high, and characteristically erratic.

"Who attacked you?" James asked.

Terror came alive on the man's face. It took great courage for him to speak, and he did so in hushed whispers. "We must not speak of them. To name them is to attract their ire, and you are lost once they have laid their cold eyes on your soul."

James nodded half-heartedly. Whoever his assailants were, James wouldn't be getting anything about them out of this man.

"What were you doing out here?"

"We were fleeing. But I got separated from the rest of the group...and that was the end of it."

"I see."

A group. That meant he could link up with them and get his hands on some supplies. Who knows, maybe they were travelling for the mountains as well. But the man had said they were running. Running from what?

There were a thousand questions that James wanted to ask the dying man. But he couldn't bring himself to pester the man so, when the life was draining out of his skin. The least he could do was to give the man some peace in his final moments.

"What's your name, sir?" the man asked, wearily. He was starting to shiver, the light starting to go out of his eyes.

"James."

"I am Jon," he managed to blurt out between coughs.

"Look, Jon..." James leaned closer, grasping one of Jon's hands as tightly as he did so, "There's no easy way to say this. You are going to die. And there's nothing I can do to stop it."

Jon simply stared on, unable to muster the strength to reply. His mouth was agape, and his breathing became heavier and heavier.

"It's okay," James said. He knew these were empty words, but he felt like he had to say them.

Jon was hyperventilating now. His eyes were darting everywhere, and his head was moving to and fro. James moved closer and clasped his hands around Jon's head, staring directly into the man's widened eyes.

"Jon. Look at me.  _Look at me._ It's all right. Just let it slide over you. Let yourself go."

"I am afraid, Sir James..." Jon spoke at length, his voice starting to break. "I am afraid, and I am alone."

"You aren't alone, Jon. Do you have someone back at home?"

"A sister."

"Let her take you then," James said, forcing himself to smile. "Into the white light. Towards the warmth. Let her take you."

Jon nodded, and then lurched in pain, his hands instinctively darting for his gut. James held him down and put some pressure to the wound, hoping that it eased the suffering, if only a little. The man started to spasm, and James gripped his hands and clasped them hard. The spasms stopped as abruptly as they had come. After a while, James felt the warmth fade away, and the fingers became limp. Behind him, the wolf howled, and James could feel the bitter tang of its genuine sorrow.

James started to lower the man's hands, when suddenly he felt the strength return to the limp grip. Shocked beyond belief, he was caught completely off-guard when Jon's eyes shot open, glowing an unnatural, deadly blue. His senses recovered, James darted immediately for the Luger in its holster, but Jon was too quick for him. He shot up with deadly agility and went for James' left hand. James felt a quick pain shoot through his left wrist as Jon's teeth dug into it, and they held on tightly even as James tried with all his might to shake the grip off.

James pulled the Luger free from the holster and fired it twice at Jon's head. Bits of brain and skull showered out the back of his head, which knocked back in recoil, freeing James out of the death grip. James kicked at the torso for good measure, driving it into the ground. He quickly backed away, his gun still raised and leveled at Jon's head.

But that wasn't Jon anymore, and James realised what it was.

The corpse shot upwards once again and rose to its feet, its intent writ large upon its deadly blue eyes. Before it could do anything else, however, the wolf roared and lunged for its former master, its jaws closing in swiftly upon the throat. It attacked without hesitation, ripping into the corpse's neck with a savage ferocity that was unsightly; but James, transfixed by what was happening in front of him, found it difficult to look away.

A few seconds of mangling later, the wolf tore the head off with a final tug and threw it away into the wild. Then it sunk into the snow, and howled, aghast at its terrible treatment of its former master.

James shook himself out of the trance and hurried to his feet. There was nothing more he could do here; it was best to leave the troubled grounds. With a heavy heart and confused mind, he set off on his path once again. He didn't get very far; he collapsed in a heap, his wounded hand hurting more than he had thought possible.

He hadn't observed the wound closely beforehand; now that he looked at it, he noticed that it hadn't healed as quickly as the ones from the fall. He spotted something lodged inside the dental marks; he pulled it out, gritting his teeth as a brief flash of pain shot through the wounded area. It was a tooth fragment, yellowed and bloodied. Frustrated, he flicked it off into the open. He pulled out his knife from his waist and tore out a piece of the black bodysuit from his arm. He wrapped it around the wound as tightly as he could, and the pain dimmed for the time being.

His mind flashed back to what had happened moments ago. It was so ridiculous, so random.

Yet it had happened, and it had happened to him.

And as James ruminated, he realised that he was more shaken from the event than he had previously thought. He steeled himself. This was only the beginning. Something in the back of his mind told him that he would be seeing plenty of stranger things before it was all over. He needed to cope with it all and soldier on, lest he got lost in all the turmoil and chaos.

But what was he holding on for? He was already dead. He remembered what Steve the bartender had said, but it all seemed so hokum right now. Whatever did Ideas have to do with him? He had been asked to fight for his very existence, and he wasn't even sure that he wanted to. Why did he deserve to be saved, to be preserved, and someone like Jon deserve to fade away, to be twisted and turned into a mockery of himself?

It didn't make any sense, and for the moment, James didn't want it to.

Suddenly, James heard something fall in the snow. It was faint, but he was definitely sure it was no hallucination. And then he heard it again: a thump here and a thump there. He reached for his Luger again and pulled it out while reaching for his knife with his left hand. He didn't want to leave anything to chance.

He saw the unmistakable shape approach, and his guess was confirmed when the figure strode through the mist. It was the wolf, but there was something different about it, now. And it wasn't the fresh blood splattered around its muzzle; there was something in the way it stared at him, with those golden orbs, that felt oddly...disarming.

"You again," James said, his Luger now pointed squarely towards the animal's skull. "What do you want from me  _this_ time?"

The wolf barked, and James felt stupid for asking. Then again, it was a rhetorical question.

The animal stopped a few feet away from James, and sat up on its hind legs. It continued to stare at him, tilting its head askew as it did so. This was starting to annoy James to no end.

"You know, I bet you are useless," James spoke, louder than he had intended. He found that he couldn't stop himself. "I bet your tracking skills aren't worth their salt. The man was lying there for a whole hour, and it took you that long to find me? I bet you can't even sniff those bastards out, whoever the guys who attacked him were. I bet you are the exact opposite of a movie miracle dog."

The wolf yelped, lowering its head slightly.

"Yeah, I bet you are completely dumb. You look all tough, but you wouldn't last alone for two seconds."

The wolf raised its head and started to move towards James again. James thrust his Luger towards the animal in a threatening gesture.

"Don't," James shouted, and it felt like it hurt every fiber of his being to do so. "Don't, fella. Don't try to make friends with the human. I can't protect you. I couldn't save your master. Hell, I can't even save myself."

"We aren't going to survive this, whatever this is," James couldn't even stare at the wolf anymore. He averted his gaze and covered his face. "We are all going to die. I don't even know what's going to happen to a guy who's already dead, but it ain't gonna be pretty. We are going to lose. We are going to lose everything."

James felt something warm and wet slide past his right cheek, all slobbery and smelly. He removed his hand from his face and opened his eyes; the wolf was sitting beside him, now. It crouched ever slightly, so that it was looking at him from an upwards perspective. The golden orbs peered at him unflinchingly, but they neither judged him nor accused him. But there was something in them, some rare quality that James quite couldn't put his finger on.

And then it came unto him, like a revelation.

It reminded him of Steve. Not Steve the bartender, but Steve Rogers. It reminded him of Natasha. It reminded him of the Avengers. It reminded him of these people, specifically, because they had seen something in him, seen past all the horrible things that he had done and they had done something: something unthinkable, for which he could never forgive those people.

They had trusted him. And it was trust he saw in the eyes of the wolf.

"Oh, Jesus…" James croaked. His grip on the Luger loosened and it slipped from his fingers, dropping to the ground. He placed a hand on the animal's neck, caressing the fuzzy coat.

The animal reacted, rising to its feet and moving closer, edging its head past his shoulder. It rubbed its cheek against his own, his skin itching slightly from the rough motion. James wrapped his arms around its neck, closing his eyes tightly.

"Jesus. I don't even know your name…" his voice trailed off. The wolf cooed appreciatively in return. He rubbed his wrist against his eyes: they were uncomfortably moistened.

There were a thousand questions throbbing inside James' head, and he didn't have the answers to any of them. He didn't know who Jon was, or how he came into the company of the wolf. He didn't know what the man was doing there or how he came to be wounded. He didn't even know what this place was.

He didn't know if he was going to make it or not. But for now, that didn't matter.

He wasn't alone anymore.

And for now, that would be enough.


End file.
